Snakes and Beetles and Monks

THE MONK
—Gail Entrekin, Grass Valley

Zipping out our road this morning
in my green Beetle, up ahead,
along the shoulder in the steam of sun,
there materialized a monk in saffron
and scarlet robes, shaved head,
walking away from me. As I passed
I turned back to see his face.
I must have looked … surprised, delighted
intrigued … I was all those things –
the mystery of his presence there –
a Tibetan monk on Wet Hill Road
beside a row of cedars, talking
on a cell phone.

I drove to the gym, lifted weights,
did yoga, took a shower, still
in the glow of that moment, so that
turning onto my road, heading home,
I was not even surprised to see him again
miles up the road from our earlier passing,
this time heading toward me, no phone
but what looked like fat yellow ear muffs
or head phones, and as I passed
he lifted his hand, met my eyes,
smiled with delight as though,
exactly as though, we had scheduled
this meeting, had been coming toward
each other from two distant places
all our lives.

_______________________

Thanks, Gail! Gail Entrekin will be reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center next Monday night, May 1.

Tonight (4/26) is the monthly Hidden Passage Poetry reading from 6 to 7 pm at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St. in Placerville. It's an open-mic read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.

Here's a snaky Medusa poem from D. Jayhne Edwards:

FUGITIVE FROM MEDUSA'S HAIRNET
—D. Jayhne Edwards, Santa Rosa

there's
a
snake
in-my
watery
wash
basin

no eyes
no mouth
no fangs
no tail

he?
she?
it?
often
appears
after-I
comb
my hair

writhing
slithering
his?
her?
its?
way
downward
toward the drain:

One human hair

_______________________

Thanks, D-Jayhne!


THE HOUSE WAS QUIET AND THE WORLD WAS CALM
—Wallace Stevens

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

________________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)